[Irn League] The Zen Of War

[Philomel]

Philomel's eyes drifted over to where Mao was nibbling the grass, and she took a moment to pause in a complimentative, significant way. A sigh, perched on her lips, took its time to be released before it truly was, drifting out over into the summery air before her and past the verandah post she was nearby.

"Madison," spoke she with soft and almost abstracted tones, "... How are you? Yes, Mao is mine."

Slowly she nodded as she took a step down to the first step of the projecting walkway, the few steps it took to descend into the garden of zen. The few steps that would take her closer to the once black-haired, now four-eyed woman of brains and innovation. Clearly her opponent in this place, but one she felt she could take time with to be reintroduced to again before they started this artful battle.

It had been too long, after all, since the two of them had seen one another. Their history was complicated and strange, but full of pain. In her heart Philomel still felt a pang of anger when she saw the briarheart, born forth from the time Madison had been in command of the Crimson Hand assassin guild and declared war against the Gilded Lily - Philomel's project, effort and child. Some vague claim had it been that it was simply for Philomel's benefit - to challenge the Lily as a power and to ensure the degree of seperation between the two. It had secured Philomel's permanent isolation from the Crimson Hand, no longer Master of Secrets, no longer a trusted member, but also because of the lack of blood that had ended up in it, it had established a weary respect from her towards Madison. Though Philomel could never truly forgive what had occurred, she did feel some form of understanding towards her. Both of them had changed during the years of Lichensith Ulroke's maddening abuse of power, and both reacted in their own ways.

"I have not seen you in some time," she said quietly, one hand slowly drifting to the hilt of her sword. A small gesture, a casual gesture. As one might place their hand on their hip. Her other hand drifted behind her back, palm facing the ground. She used it as a concentrative method to send awareness into the soil, straight towards the grass were Mao was eating, to call upon the plants to help her, should the need come.

"Tell me how have you been?"

With the last words she clomped down the last couple of steps, coming to rest on the smooth stones at the edge of the garden. Those of dark colours and casual beauty, like the calm before a storm. Tilting up her head she stood not five feet now from the briarheart, stance tall and proud, and patience in her heart. Hand curling around the hilt of her sword and whispers now beginning to be told to the grass she prepared - but did not strike. Instead she simply smiled, and waited, her eyes locked on the strange white mask on the briarheart's face. Waited for Madison to reply, waited for Madison to strike. Waited for her to do some form of ghastly magic that she was capable of.

Whilst in the wings, elsewhere in the teahouse-citadel, Veridian and Delath, fox and dragon respectively, were still sipping on their hot beverages and waiting for the call. Their minds astute, their bodies ready.

But Philomel would not strike first.